


scapegoat

by freakedelic



Series: NonconWhumpKinktober 2020 [25]
Category: DCU (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Alien Biology, Alternate Universe - Cults, Anal Sex, Forced Feminization, M/M, Tim is salty, Vomiting (Mild), mentioned mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:41:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26982316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freakedelic/pseuds/freakedelic
Summary: Tim wishes this was a dream.
Relationships: Tim Drake/Ra's al Ghul
Series: NonconWhumpKinktober 2020 [25]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1917016
Comments: 14
Kudos: 63





	scapegoat

**Author's Note:**

> whumptober day 25: disorientation, kinktober day 25: bondage  
> also the noncontober prompt is victim blaming which i forgot to put in this but im going to victim blame tim now. tim is a slutty prettyboy who is asking to be dicked down by a demon. thank u.

Tim’s lashes flutter as he stares up at the ceiling. It’s obscured through the green smoke but he suspects it might be . . . domed? Strange, since he’s also sure they’re underground. His vision fades in and out, darkness lapping at the corners of his eyes. He knows, in his mind, that he should be more upset. Deeply upset. Angry. He squirms, back pressed bruisingly hard against the stone altar.

Oh, and the _achingly_ huge member that pumps rhythmically in and out of his ass. It hurts, even through the drugs. Tim can feel blood dripping down his crack and smearing his thighs—probably the stupid fucking dress, too. He thought there had been underwear included in the outfit. Wishful thinking, apparently.

It’s bigger than he knew anything could be. It’s forcing him open, taking up so much space inside of him there doesn’t seem to be room for his organs. There are ridges too. He can feel them as it’s pulled out almost to the tip and then _slammed_ back in with force that makes him whine, high and pained. This can’t be normal. This can’t be _real_. God, this can’t be fucking _real_.

It hurts like it’s real. Which means that after this . . . he’s going to _hurt_ for a long, long time. The thought makes him sick, but there’s nothing in his stomach to throw up as he tilts his head to the side and gags. In the distance, over the sound of skin on skin and the wet sounds of . . . _fucking_. . . he can hear them chanting. It’s a language that sounds vaguely like Arabic but his brain hurts too much to parse even if he does know it. The dress rustles against his thighs.

Tim wishes this was a dream. He feels himself torn open, fucked into over and over, and he can almost fade away and pretend that none of this is real. That it’s some fucked up hallucination from some fucked up drug Bruce made him take for training purposes. He hears his own voice from time to time, gasping above the crowd. It hurts.

He thinks there is relief when the too-big hips slamming against the back of his thighs come to a shuddering stop, but it’s a stupid notion from his drug-addled mind. Instead, the things that should be obvious happens: the penis, which has been fucking him, ejaculates. Tim lets out a horrified yell as his ass starts to fill with fluid, spurts of burning, thick stuff that makes him feel _full_. There’s more of it than any human would be able to produce, shoved up inside him. Tim thrashes. He feels like he’s finally coming to his senses, the horror of it setting in. Somehow having the thing _coming_ in his _ass_ is what makes him finally start screaming and kicking.

“Hold him down,” the thing growls.

So many fingers and hands grasp at Tim’s limbs, at his wrists and forearms and shoulders. Individually he could throw them off but they pull at him in a mass of bodies, nails biting into his body through the dress as the Demon they worship ravages him for a few more heavy thrusts.

It looks down at him, vivid green slitted eyes the only thing he can clearly make out as it takes him in, a too-big clawed hand pressed on his chest.

Tim wants to throw up again.

“Are you _done_?” he demands.

It laughs. Tim flinches in surprise at the low, deep sound, wondering if this is the moment where he gets gutted on top of the altar.

“You are exquisite,” it rumbles. Tim’s confused brain takes seconds to process it, body shuddering with the aftermath of his exertion. “You were a wise choice of a Bride.”

Tim tries to breathe in, but all he gets is more thick, hot smoke scorching his lungs. The clawed hand moves down to his stomach. “Our children will be _perfect_.”

Tim chokes on his own spit as he violently tries to sit up. He’s hallucinating. There’s no way he just heard that right. Jesus Christ. “Our— _what_?”

“Our children,” the Demon rumbles, as if Tim is the outrageous one. He stares up into the smoke and sees a dragon. Tim prays harder than he ever has that this is a bad trip on shitty supervillain cult drugs and any second he’s going to wake up with a hard-on on the floor of a warehouse. “You are a Bride, soon to be the Mother of Demons.”

Tim looks up at the Demon, who apparently failed high school biology. “I don’t . . . I’m not . . .” He tries to find the words to explain that the terrible penis is lodged in his _ass_ , which has a purpose distinctly different from _birth_.

“I have lived a thousand thousand centuries, Timothy,” the thing . . . murmurs? Purrs? Its vicious claws and scaled palm are against his cheek, almost . . . caressing. “The limitations of your mortal form do not trouble my plans.”

The Demon slides out with a disgusting wet noise, leaving Tim shuddering and slamming his thighs shut as his body still feels horribly _open_. “Take my Bride back to his prepared quarters.” His clawed fingers grasp Tim’s wrist, comically large in comparison. “Do not worry, Beloved,” he rumbles. The smile he gives is all sharpened teeth. “We are married in the sight of Hell itself. We will not be apart for long.”


End file.
